


and in my chest, you knew me best

by grasslandgirl



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Lounge Singer AU, anybody who says fabian is ooc: shut up he went to therapy, anyway figfabian is so INCREDIBLY bi4bi and i love that for me and for them, author has complicated feelings about Bill Seacaster, basrar also best wingman, fabian adaine friendship means so much to me actually, gorgug and adaine best wingmen, idk they're like mid-twenties, is that a thing? it is now, sig figs like significant figures, they just want their best friends to be happy :((, theyre psuedo siblings and fellow fancy kids here and its delightful, this is a short fig truther acc she's short and i love her, yet another installment of Sav Uses Too Many Italics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 02:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grasslandgirl/pseuds/grasslandgirl
Summary: “Hey.” Fig touched his shoulder backstage after last call. “We were really good tonight.”Fabian could hear the quiet music playing from the speakers over the muffled clamor of guests and patrons finishing their drinks and conversations, shuffling out of the bar. Fig’s face was washed in dim blue, with one slash of stage light cutting through the curtains and across her face. She was grinning at him, and her hand was warm on his shoulder."Weweregood, weren’t we?” Fabian echoed, and Fig’s smile grew.“See you tomorrow, Smokes. I’ll email you the arrangements when I get home.”“Right. See you tomorrow, Winehouse,” Fabian said with a wink.Fig’s laugh was bright and loud, and Fabian guessed that people could probably hear her in the bar proper. “Night, Fabian.” She winked back at him before spinning on her heel and disappearing further backstage.Fuck,Fabian thought.Fuck me.
Relationships: Adaine Abernant & Fabian Aramais Seacaster, Figueroth Faeth & Gorgug Thistlespring, Figueroth Faeth/Fabian Aramais Seacaster, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Zelda Donovan/Gorgug Thistlespring
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	and in my chest, you knew me best

**Author's Note:**

> So much thanks to [Mer @acrtualbabe](https://actualbabe.tumblr.com/) and [Aster @sasharchivists](https://sasharchivists.tumblr.com/) for beta’ing this monster for me, and so so so much thanks to the ever wonderful [Casey @aberfaeth](https://aberfaeth.tumblr.com/) not only for beta’ing this, but for inspiring the concept itself and cheerleading me the whole way through the writing process, i genuinely couldn’t have done this without you, my dear  
> Title comes from No One Knows Me Like the Piano, by Sampha which was the inspiration for this fic overall, and also my headcanon for Fabian’s singing voice (a second shout out to Casey for the song rec and hc to begin with)  
> You can listen to NOKMLTP and all the other songs referenced in this fic, as well as the other songs that inspired this fic [in this playlist!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2EUfvloco7pvPtFg2VeJjZ?si=1AnhuuM-QRiOidT2Tku9xA) thank you so much for reading <33

Some of Fabian’s earliest memories were at the piano. His mother, sitting beside him on the bench, her long, delicate hands guiding his fingers onto the right keys. The way the sounds rang out, clear and strong, echoing on the hard marble floor and filling up the room until it almost shook with music. How his father would sneak up behind them and put his hands gently over his mother’s eyes or tickle Fabian in the middle of a song until all three of them were giggling. 

Sometimes, when he was alone at the piano, he could still feel his mother sitting next to him, his father at their back. 

Fabian rolled his wrists and ran a quick scale over the keys, trying to shake off the lingering ghosts of his childhood. The bar was opening in an hour, and if he got caught up thinking about his _parents,_ of all things, then he wouldn’t be on the top of his game. He was working with a new vocalist- Figueroth- who’d been working at the bar longer than Fabian, but had been out of town since he’d been hired. Apparently, she was really good. Their best. 

So Fabian had to be better.

He flipped through the book on his stand, pulling out a couple songs he knew were crowd pleasers- even on a Tuesday night, which was always his dullest crowd- and a couple he’d been wanting to try with a female vocalist. He marked a couple spots he’d had trouble with in light pencil; places where the tempo was weird, or there was a moment of disharmony that always managed to take him by surprise. 

“Hi, sorry, I’m here,” a bright female voice called from backstage. Fabian heard someone shuffling papers briefly and murmuring to Riz, the sound technician, before walking onstage. She was short, even in heels, and dressed in a sleek black dress that was nearly floor length, save for a slit that went up the leg and hit her thigh. Her hair was pulled up in a neat french twist at the back of her neck, with long silver earrings that dangled against her neck.

“Figueroth?” Fabian asked, rising to his feet and offering his hand to shake. 

“Fig is fine, really, only my Dad calls me Figueroth,” she answered, shaking his hand. “You’re Fabian, right? The new guy?” 

“I’ve been here almost a month,” Fabian argued, trying and failing to bite down on the defensive note in his voice. There wasn’t a lot of turnover in performers at Bastion’s, he was the first new hire in nearly six months, and Fabian was fairly nervous that he’d spend the next year being referred to as _‘the new guy.’_ It was grating on him already. Belatedly, he realized that snapping at his new partner immediately after meeting her was possibly not his greatest decision. “Uh- sorry, yes, I’m Fabian Aramais Seacaster, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance-”

“Dude,” Fig interrupted him, lips pursed in a smile as she waved her hand, like she was brushing away his words mid-air. “It’s cool, I get it. They called me _new kid_ for like, the first year I worked here, and that wasn’t even the worst nickname I got. It’s like, a _thing._ No biggie, though, I’ll come up with a better nickname for you.” Fig crossed to where her sheet music stand and mic were at the edge of the stage, tugging them across the small platform towards Fabian’s piano. 

“Better… nickname?” 

“Yeah, something like… Johnny Smokes, or Whiskey… something. I don’t know, I’ll work on it.”

“Johnny Smokes?” Fabian echoed, incredulous and trying not to laugh, but Fig snorted in laughter at his voice. 

“Okay, yeah, maybe not my best work,” she admitted, rolling her eyes and shooting him a grin, “I’ll figure something out, genius takes work.”

“I’m sure. What nickname do you have now, if you’re not _new kid_ anymore?”

“Sig Fig, mostly, which I’m not mad about, but Riz still calls me Hilda and _won’t stop!”_ Fig shouted the last part of her sentence, turning towards the curtains that separated them from the backstage corridor and hid the sound booth from the audience’s view. Fabian heard Riz snicker loudly from behind the curtain as Fig scoffed and rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, sticking her tongue out in Riz’s direction like they were children at recess. It was weirdly… endearing. Most of the people who worked at Bastion’s, like the customers they served and the people Fabian had grown up with, were arrogant and snobby; always trying to gain and maintain the upper hand in any given situation, trying to be the best in every room. Fabian did it too. But Fig, even after knowing Fabian for only a few minutes, was more comfortable and easy going than anyone else he’d met at Bastion’s. 

_“Hilda?”_

Fig laughed again, “It’s a long story. A long, _really embarrassing_ story. Anyway, what’re your go-to's for songs?”

And just like that, Fig was all business, going through and planning their set and asking about what Fabian was familiar and comfortable with, saying where she usually needs bathroom and water breaks, which songs are harder on her voice than others. There were a couple of his songs Fig wasn’t familiar with, but she took pictures of his sheet music with her phone and promised to look over them when she got home.

“I’m usually pretty good at catching on to stuff and going with the flow, though, so if you wanna mess around with chords and rhythms I should be good; I just need a little time to make sure I’m solid on lyrics with new songs. I can usually anticipate melodies with new songs, so long as there’s no weird dissonant harmonies or anything that comes out of the blue, you know?”

“Yeah, of course. Are there any favorites in your book that you want to go over?” Fabian asked, pulling his phone out of his pocket to take some notes. 

“Oh, yeah, I have some Winehouse I arranged to fit a piano solo-”

“Oh, she’d be really good for your vocals,” Fabian interrupted, and for the first time since she arrived in a shiny black whirlwind, Fig paused, blushing slightly as she glanced over at Fabian. 

“Yeah, thanks, I think so too,” she said quietly, a sliver of gentle vulnerability breaking through her expression before her smile broadened again and the moment broke. “Anyway, yeah I have a couple different piano arrangements for songs I can email you later to look over?”

“Yeah, sure, that sounds good.”

“Dope, and you feel good about the set for tonight?” 

“Absolutely.” Fabian pressed the nervous, pre-show jitters deep in his stomach, praying that Fig couldn’t see them plastered on his face. If there was anything he learned from his parents, it was how to bury his fears so deep that no one would ever see them. 

Their first night went well, better than Fabian would’ve expected for their first time performing together. Fig’s stage presence was enthralling without being distracting. She interacted with patrons without overwhelming them, a tricky balance to strike that she managed effortlessly. By the end of the night, the tip jar tucked in the corner of the stage was fuller than Fabian had ever seen it, even on his busiest weekend, and Fig was glowing the way that only people made for performing did after a show. 

“Hey.” Fig touched his shoulder backstage after last call. “We were really good tonight.” 

Fabian could hear the quiet music playing from the speakers over the muffled clamor of guests and patrons finishing their drinks and conversations, shuffling out of the bar. Fig’s face was washed in dim blue, with one slash of stage light cutting through the curtains and across her face. She was grinning at him, and her hand was warm on his shoulder.

“We _were_ good, weren’t we?” Fabian echoed, and Fig’s smile grew.

“See you tomorrow, Smokes. I’ll email you the arrangements when I get home.” 

“Right. See you tomorrow, Winehouse,” Fabian said with a wink.

Fig’s laugh was bright and loud, and Fabian guessed that people could probably hear her in the bar proper. “Night, Fabian.” She winked back at him before spinning on her heel and disappearing further backstage. 

_Fuck,_ Fabian thought. _Fuck me._

* * *

Performing with Fig was different than performing with anyone else. Fabian had been onstage or in front of crowds his whole life: piano recitals as a child, football games in highschool, hovering proudly behind his parents at galas and charity events for his father’s company or his mother’s family. It was in his blood. He could slip into a stage-ready attitude easier than putting on a jacket; some days, it was easier to pretend to be _the_ Fabian Aramais Seacaster, than it was to be the man who had to push himself to roll out of bed every day. But performing with Fig was different. He didn’t hear his mother’s voice in his head, telling him to straighten his shoulders and raise his chin, or his father telling him that it was the Seacaster Legacy he was upholding, that everything Fabian did reflected back on him. 

For the first time performing, Fabian could just breathe. He could remember the simple joy he’d found in music as a child, before the expectations of his parents and their world started weighing him down. There was something about the easy grace Fig sang with, the effortless way she strode across the stage, like she was pulling all the lights towards her. There was something about how she would smile at him, wide and confident and knowing, from atop the piano; like it was just them and the music. Like the rest of the world melted away.

Also, the tips were better than ever; which was _obviously_ the most important thing.

Fig elbowed her way into Fabian’s life, texting him at all odd hours about music or bizarre patrons or the new tea her friend had given her to try. (The teas were always, without exception, awful; but Fig drank them without fail, and, on the rare occasions she’d shove a thermos into Fabian’s hands at the beginning of the night, he did too.) They were… friends, he was pretty sure, but Fabian was also pretty sure that Fig made friends with everyone she met. She had the kind of personality that was electric and magnetic and all those other words people used when they just meant _very hot_ and _very charismatic._ But she was funny, too, and good at getting people to open up, even people as terminally emotionally constipated as Fabian. 

There were moments where Fabian could see through the bright shining charisma that Fig wore like armor, where he could see the version of herself she hid away from the public, hid away from all the friends she made with strangers. The version of herself that she, for some reason he couldn’t understand, chose to share with Fabian. Small moments when her smile would falter, when the stage-ready energy would slip and fractures of vulnerability would shine through. Moments where she would stare at him, eyes sharp and discerning, almost like she was searching for something. 

Little by little, in rehearsals and at drinks after work, she told him about how her dad left when she was in high school. How her mother had cheated on him and that the man who’d raised her wasn’t even her biological father. How Fig had blamed her mom when she was a teenager for lying to her and her father her whole life, for never letting her meet her biological father. How it’d taken years for Fig to find her birth father, and even longer for her to put her family back together. 

She got him to open up, too; to talk about his father’s impossible expectations and how his mother had grown increasingly distant and how suffocating his house had gotten. About the nanny who’d practically raised him and the best friend who’d been there when no one else had. 

They bonded over music, they way it communicated without words, how connections were formed on stage and with the audience. How the vulnerability of laying your heart on the stage was sometimes easier than opening up to someone in person. Less risk, less danger of being pushed away.

Fig had a way of pulling his heart. He told her things he thought he would never tell anyone, things he had held tight to his chest for as long as he could remember. It caught him by surprise every time, that all it took was a look and suddenly the words that had rattled around in his head were suddenly spilling out of him, only for Fig to catch them in her hands, because there was some part of him that felt he could trust her with his deepest secrets

Fabian wasn’t a coward- his father had told him over and over again, _Seacasters aren’t cowards; you remember that, my boy-_ but there was something about Fig that terrified him. Her smile and her energy and her knife-sharp wit and the way she’d catch his eye in the middle of a set and make it feel like it was just them onstage. Like there was something about him she could see that no one else could. Like for the first time, he was worth looking at. 

“What are you thinking about?” Fig whispered one night backstage. It was intermission, the thirty minute break they had mid-shift where they could drink water and go to the bathroom before the second half; and where Fig usually shoveled a granola bar or yogurt cup into her mouth at rather alarming speeds. 

_You,_ Fabian thought, before hesitating. He swallowed the word, forcing a smile as he attempted to brush off her curious glance. “Oh, uh, nothing.”

“Really?” There was a faint, teasing smile on Fig’s lips as she cocked her head at him. “Cause I think I can see the wheels turning up there.” She tapped him gently on the temple with the calloused tip of her finger. 

Fabian chuckled a little, “Adaine says the same thing, only it’s usually paired with a comment about how _rarely_ I think.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’d assume that she’d be nicer to me, given that I pay half the rent and make her breakfast most mornings, but _no-”_ he rolled his eyes fondly- “she always has to be the smartest one in every argument. I love her though, no matter how difficult she makes it for me. 

“You’d like her, I think,” he added, “you’d probably gang up against me, which I wouldn’t _love;_ but it’d be fun.” He glanced at Fig. She was staring at him, a glazed look in her eyes. “Fig?”

“Right. _Adaine.”_ Fig’s smile had lost all its ease, sliding into the smooth, stage smile she shone at the audience. “Um, yeah, sure, cool. I’m gonna- I’m gonna go get some water,” she said abruptly, shooting him another false smile that left a twisted feeling in Fabian’s stomach. 

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Fabian feeling like he missed something; like when Adaine used to explain her advanced calculus homework to him in highschool, and he felt like he had a gaping hole of understanding in his head. Like if he just thought a little harder, he could piece it together, but it always left him more confused and frustrated than when he started. But this time he didn’t have Adaine to walk him through all the steps of the unit circle; it was just him, standing alone backstage.

* * *

“You really like her, don’t you?” Adaine asked one day, interrupting Fabian mid-story about a patron Fig had nearly punched after the bar closed. She glanced up from painting her fingernails to give him a smug look. “I mean, you’re always talking about her, and the last time you wouldn’t shut up about someone was your _‘rivalry’_ with Ragh back in highschool; and we both know how _that_ turned out.” After a moment of his silence, Adaine’s smug smile faded into a concerned frown. “Fabian?”

Fabian blinked and forced an awkward chuckle, “Ah, what?” He said, desperately trying to pretend that Adaine’s passing comment hadn’t frozen him in shock. _You really like her, don’t you?_

Fabian’s heart squeezed in his chest. Adaine probably just meant he really liked Fig as a _friend,_ she was always on him about making new friends, broadening his social sphere. As though Adaine was the pinnacle of a social butterfly herself (any pointing out of this hypocrisy, however, only granted him a pointed scowl and a threat against his wardrobe- Adaine knew how dear his couture sweat suits were). 

_But what if…_ a tiny voice whispered in the back of Fabian’s head, a voice that had been getting consistently louder over the past few months, _what if you like her as more than a friend?_

Adaine sat up, fingers splayed carefully on the floor, so as to not mess up the wet polish. She frowned at him, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed and head cocked slightly to the side, a perfect mirror image of every time Adaine had scrutinized Fabian over the course of their long friendship. She peered at him for a moment before inhaling sharply, eyes widening. “Shit,” she breathed, “you _like_ her.”

_Fuck._

Fabian was faced with an impossible decision: try and bluff his near-psychic best friend and convince her he wasn’t catching feelings for his partner, or swallow his pride and break down his walls and come clean. 

“I- she’s my _work partner,_ Adaine,” Fabian said, which wasn’t really an answer in either direction. Adaine scowled at his attempted misdirection, but her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach out to him. “Fig is… I’m- ugh,” he groaned, giving up on trying to enunciate the vortex of feelings into words. Fabian flopped backwards onto the floor, draping one arm dramatically over his face. How did people do this? Talk about their _feelings?_

“Fabian…” Adaine said gently, an annoyingly perfect echo of her adopted father’s _I’m Going To Be Reasonable And Help You_ therapy voice, “you’re allowed to _feel_ things, even if you don’t have the words for them. And you don’t _have_ to talk to me-” Fabian scoffed into his arm at that, and Adaine punched him lightly in the leg in retribution- “you _don’t._ But you should talk to someone. And if I just _happen_ to be the person you’re closest to and most comfortable with…”

There was a reason Adaine wasn’t studying to be a therapist. But she made a good point, no matter how infuriating it was to have a best friend who was always right. 

“Fine, fine,” Fabian grumbled, sitting back up and glaring at Adaine’s smug grin. 

“Awesome. Now, _spill.”_

“I don’t know, there’s nothing _to spill.”_ Fabian shrugged, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against his leg until he realized he was finger playing the notes to Fig’s new favorite opening number. “I just… she’s great. An incredible musician and she’s funny and she’s so surprising, like every time I think I know what she’s doing she surprises me with something else. And she makes me _like playing_ again-” 

“Fabian,” Adaine said patiently, “have you tried telling Fig that?”

“What? _No._ Why would I…? We’re coworkers, partners, it’s not- she’s not-”

“The great Fabian Aramais Seacaster, brought down by a crush.” Adaine shook her head ruefully. “You’re a great guy, Fabian. You’re talented and you’re handsome and you’ve got a good kind heart, hidden under all that ego and posturing.”

Fabian sniffed and lifted his chin, trying not to smile at Adaine’s backhanded compliment. “Thank you, I think. I’m pretty sure there was a compliment for me in there somewhere, and I know it’s _so hard_ for you to admit anything positive about me; what with my _ego_ and all-“

“Shut _up,”_ Adaine groaned, shoving at Fabian’s shoulder and laughing. “You know what I mean. Fig would be lucky to go out with you, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know,” Fabian sighed, “I just don’t want to ruin our friendship with, like, _feelings._ What if it makes it all weird at work, and then I get fired because she _hates_ me and then I’ll be poor, and I’ll have to live in a cabin in the woods to escape my shame, and I’ll be alone and poor forever and my life will be over?”

Adaine coughed into her elbow in a way that sounded suspiciously like a politely covered laugh. “Fabian, even if she says no, you’re not going to get fired for making it awkward- unless you do it in some creepy possessive gross way, Fabian, I swear I’ve taught you better- and even if it _is_ awkward, it’ll get better eventually; and if you _do_ get fired for whatever reason, you won’t be immediately poor and have to live in a cabin in the woods. Seriously, I’m not going to kick you out just because you can’t cover a month or two’s rent. I’m not _that_ terrible a friend, am I?”

“No, no, I know, it’s just- I don’t want to _ruin_ it.” 

Adaine grabbed Fabian’s hand in her own and squeezed it, leaning forward so her face was directly in his line of sight. “Look at me, Fabian, I get it. I know that feeling of, like, being terrified you’ll fail and that everything will go to shit can be super overwhelming, I _know.”_ Adaine had struggled with her anxiety as long as Fabian had known her, and it hadn’t been until she moved in with Jawbone and started going to therapy for it that she learned that she didn’t have to spend her whole life paralyzed with fear and indecision. Fabian couldn’t count how many times he’d sat and held her hands just like this and talked her down from whatever anxiety spiral she’d gotten caught in. “It’ll be okay, you’re going to be _okay,_ no matter what happens. You’ve got me and Jawbone and Tracker and all our other friends in your corner.”

“I know,” Fabian muttered, but squeezed Adaine’s hands back in thanks, feeling his breath start to slow down again. “I know.” 

“Talk to her,” Adaine repeated, “or don’t. It’s not the end of the world either way; I just want you to be happy.”

Fabian glanced up at his oldest friend, overwhelmingly grateful. “I want you to be happy, too, Adaine.”

Adaine’s face scrunched up in an unselfconscious smile as she shifted to sit beside Fabian instead of across from him on the floor. She leaned her head against his shoulder, “I am happy, Fabian. I am.”

* * *

Fabian mustered up the courage to say something a few nights after manicure night with Adaine. He caught Fig backstage at the end of the night, the last stragglers still slowly making their way out the doors. “Uh, Fig-”

“Fabian! Did you see that guy tonight, the one over in the big Sinatra booth on stage left? I swear that guy had like four different bottles of champagne tonight. And, like, it wasn’t the cheap champagne, either, I could see the gold stuff on the label from stage.”

“Uh, no, I didn’t see him.”

“Dude, it was insane. I mean like, most of the people who come here are loaded as hell, you know? Like our drinks are fucking expensive but this guy was on another level,” Fig continued, tugging her hair out of the sleek bun she’d had it in all night and taking off her blazer. 

“Fig, I was thinking, if you would be amenable-”

“What do you think that guy’s dating life is like? I mean like, I’m not interested in a sugar daddy or whatever the fuck, but just objectively, what do you do when you have that much money to burn? Like go and throw diamonds off the side of your yacht in like a titanic redux?”

“If you’d want to have dinner? There’s a place that has delightful kippers and they make cocktails with imported scotch and gold leaf-”

Fig burst into laughter, cutting Fabian off. “Oh my god, exactly! He’s like-” she dropped her voice into a low approximation of a posh accent- “my darling, I only eat food with gold leaf and truffle oil, otherwise it’s not suited for my sophisticated palate.”

Fabian’s mind spun. His mother hadn’t taught him much, especially as he’d gotten older, but she’d taken specific care in teaching him how to appropriately woo a woman: to take her to a formal dinner, make sure she felt well taken care of and cared for, to make your feelings clearly known without being presumptuous. That, or challenge her to a duel as his father had done. He didn’t know- what had he done wrong? Was the idea of going on a date with him truly so hysterical? Did she really think that Fabian was on par with the outrageously gauche gentleman who’d been at the bar that night? The idea was as horrifying as it was mortifying. 

“God, seeing weirdos like that always make my night, dude,” Fig continued, unaware or uncaring of Fabian’s emotional spiral. She tugged her phone out of her pocket, flicking through some notifications briefly. “Shit, okay, I’ve gotta run, Gorgug’s outside and he wanted to go for a late dinner tonight. I’ll see you- Thursday, right? Our next shift?” Fabian nodded dully, forcing himself to smile in response to Fig’s blinding grin. “Sick, okay, see you then dude! Have a good night.” She waved and sauntered off, leaving a shell-shocked Fabian in her wake.

 _Gorgug._ She had a boyfriend, apparently, and Fabian had made a complete ass of himself. 

He felt vaguely grateful that Fig had brushed away his question so easily, gently declining before redirecting the conversation and mentioning her boyfriend. That she had tried to give him as much dignity as she could while throwing his ego in the dumpster. 

_Are you a Seacaster or a worm, my boy?_ His father’s voice echoed in his head. _You’re either a man, or you’re not worth the scum on my shoe._

Objectively, Fabian knew that wasn’t true. He’d done a lot of work with Jawbone over the years- most at Adaine’s insistence- on combating the awful, self-hating thoughts his anxiety fed him. He knew that Adaine loved him and that his self worth wasn’t defined by the people around him and all the other self-help bullshit he’d heard over the years. But none of it stopped the twisting, horrified feeling in his stomach as he stood and watched Fig walk away.

* * *

Fabian was incredibly tempted to call out sick Thursday night, couldn’t imagine stomaching a shift alongside Fig, even after spending his day off moping around the apartment- much to Adaine’s alternating chagrin and sympathy. But he also couldn’t imagine Fig singing with anyone else. The greedy, desperate part of him wanted to hold onto any scrap of Fig she gave him; even if it was only work, even if it was only friendship and partnership and the pieces of themselves they gave to the audience every night. It would be enough. It had to be.

“It’ll be okay, Fabian,” Adaine told him, sitting cross legged on his bed while he knotted his tie for work. 

“I know, I know, I just feel so _stupid,”_ he muttered, scowling at his reflection. “But it’s fine, I’m Fabian Aramais Seacaster-” he straightened, lifting his chin and squaring his shoulders like he’d been taught to his whole life- “who fucking needs feelings, anyway?”

“I don’t think that’s the moral to take from this-”

“I’m going to go into work and I’m going to be the best damn pianist in the place and I’m going to make _so many tips_ tonight.”

Adaine sighed, but when Fabian glanced over his shoulder at her, she was smiling faintly. “Sure, Fabian.” 

Fabian pressed a kiss to the top of Adaine’s head as he passed her to grab his phone and wallet off his dresser. “Thanks, Addy,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact, “I, uh, thank you.”

“Of course.” He could hear the smile in her voice, soft and gentle and warm. “You’re like my brother, I’m not just going to let you have a crush-break down alone. You’d eat all my ice cream by yourself.”

Fabian scoffed, “It wasn’t a _break down,_ Adaine. It was- whatever. I’m the _cool older brother,_ and I’ll eat all the ice cream if I want to.”

“It’s _my_ ice cream!” Adaine argued, laughing.

“It’s _our_ ice cream, Adaine, I’m entitled to my fair share of it.”

 _“Fair share,”_ Adaine muttered disbelievingly under her breath, “you ate two full pints.”

 _“Fiiine,”_ Fabian groaned, “I’ll pick up more after work, happy?”

Adaine jumped off his bed and brushed past him into the hall, hip checking him as she did. “So long as it’s the butter pecan I like and none of your weird rose petal and chardonnay shit, yeah, I’ll be happy.”

Fabian rolled his eyes at her retreating back, but couldn’t keep the smile off his face; he already felt better about going into work. 

He owed Adaine a pint of ice cream. 

* * *

Fig was usually late. Always with some excuse about traffic or her roommate or needing to wait for her suit to dry, but Fabian didn’t really mind. Most days, it gave him a little time to get all his sheet music set up at the piano, and do a mic check with Riz before he had to check Fig’s mic. Today, it gave him a moment to remind himself that it was fine, they were _friends._ That Fig had a boyfriend and Fabian was self sufficient and that they were best together onstage, and that was enough. 

He heard her come in before he saw her, as usual, but instead of coming in through the back door like she usually did, Fig came barreling in through the front entrance. “Sorry, sorry, I’m late! Traffic was awful and I came straight from rehearsal and- ugh!” She ran up to the edge of the stage, and Fabian realized for the first time that Fig was wearing street clothes. And that they were wildly different from what she usually wore to work.

Ripped fishnet sleeves under a short black t-shirt for a band Fabian didn’t recognize, jeans that were more holes than denim, covered in scribbles of what looked like sharpie, and heavy platform boots. She was wearing at least three chunky silver necklaces layered on top of each other and her hands sparkled with what looked like at least a dozen rings on her fingers. Her eyeshadow was heavy and dark, shadowing her eyes and exaggerating her under eye bags, and the blush on her cheeks was exaggerated and bright- whether from makeup or the run into the building, Fabian couldn’t tell. 

She looked good. Really good.

 _Fabian-felt-kind-of-stupid-looking-at-her,_ good.

Fig was always beautiful in the formal wear she wore to work; floor length dresses in subdued colors or feminine-cut suits in crushed velvet and silk. But seeing her in what was obviously her usual style, Fabian was struck by the realization that _this_ was Fig, the real Fig. That outside of work she was just as loud and dramatic and exaggerated as she was in the moments they spent together as friends- and she was absolutely breathtaking. 

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom and change really quick, kay?”

“Uh, yes. Sure,” Fabian stammered.

Fig’s eyebrows furrowed. “You okay, Fabian? You’re not sick or dying or anything, right?”

Fabian forced a strangled-sounding laugh, “Yeah, no, not dying. You just-” _be cool, Fabian, act cool-_ “you look really nice.”

Fig’s face flushed even darker as her lips quirked up in a surprised kind of smile. “Oh. Uh, thanks? I mean, I just came from rehearsal so I feel kind of grimy, and you always come in all perfectly put together and handsome but-” her eyes widened abruptly- “uh! Thanks! I’m gonna go- change!” Spinning on her heel, Fig ran towards the bathroom, her bag bobbing on her hip.

“Uh, okay?” Fabian muttered to himself, staring dazedly after her. _Perfectly put together and handsome? Fuck._

Fabian practiced a few rhythms and chords that were giving him trouble as he waited, trying not to think about Fig changing. Fig, blushing when he complimented her. Fig, saying he looked handsome. 

He was working on it.

A few minutes later, he heard Fig exit the bathroom and have a murmured conversation with Riz backstage before sheepishly walking onstage, dragging her stand mic behind her. She was wearing a dress she’d worn to work a few other times- dark charcoal with black floral embroidery that started on her hip and stretched across the bodice to her opposite shoulder. She’d taken off the messier, darker makeup she’d been wearing for an understated eyeshadow that shimmered under the stage lights and a bright red lip. Her hair was down around her shoulders, still in waves from the braid she’d had it in earlier. She looked lovely and effortlessly put together, just like she always did; but for the first time, Fabian could see the tension she carried in her shoulders, the careful way she walked in her heels. How much more comfortable she’d seemed when she was still in her jeans and combat boots. 

“Hey, sorry again,” she said sheepishly as she tossed her phone, water bottle, and sheet music on the top of the piano. “I usually change at home before coming in, but I had a different rehearsal that butted up against this and then ran long, and my friend had to drive me here straight from there, so like, _ugh,_ you know?”

“A different rehearsal?”

“Oh,” Fig grinned at him, “I’m in a band, and we have a show tomorrow night, so we did our last run through of the set this afternoon before sound checks tomorrow.”

“I didn’t know you were in a band,” Fabian said neutrally, trying not to think about Fig in her ripped jeans and tall boots and wild make up, screaming lyrics at the top of her voice. So wildly different from how she was onstage at Bastion’s every night, but with the same electric energy and charisma. 

“Yeah, I can’t believe I never told you about it; we’re Fig and the Sig Figs and it’s me on bass and my best friend Gorgug on drums, and-”

“Best friend?” Fabian interrupted, unthinking. Fig shot him a confused smile, nodding, as he stammered, “You and Gorgug- I thought you were- didn’t you say, the other night, with your dinner…? You’re dating?” 

_Fuck; smooth as always, Seacaster._

Fig blinked at him before turning an abrupt and unexpected shade of red. “Nope!” She said brightly. “Not dating! Just best friends! He actually has a girlfriend, and she’s great. We’re just bandmates and best friends-” Fig cut herself off with a wild, almost manic-sounding laugh. “Uh, anyway.” She shook her head, looking down at where her hands were clenched around the mic stand. “We’re, um, we have a concert tomorrow, if you’d- I don’t know if you’re free or whatever, but I could comp tickets for you and your girlfriend if you wanted to come.”

“My _girlfriend?”_ Fabian echoed.

Fig glanced up at him, a wrinkle between her brows. “Adaine, right?”

“My girlfriend, _Adaine?”_ Fabian breathed, wide eyed and trying not to burst into hysterical laughter himself. “I’m not- we’re not _dating._ She’s like my sister, ugh. Not- it’s not- no. I’m, uh, single. As it were. You know.” He waved his hand in a vague circle, praying Fig couldn’t feel the warmth of his cheeks from across the stage. 

“Oh.” Fig stared at him, baffled and almost… not hopeful, there wasn’t any reason for her to be _hopeful._ It didn’t matter that she wasn’t dating her bandmate or that she thought he was dating Adaine (ugh, Adaine was going to find that so funny, he could hear her laughing about it already); she’d turned him down already, she wasn’t _interested,_ so why was she _looking at him like that-_ “You can still come to the show, if you want. With… whoever.”

“Ah, yeah, I’d- yes. I’d love to.” That was a normal way to respond, right? A normal amount of interest and excitement to show about a coworker-slash-friend’s concert? 

“Cool.” There was a small, tentative smile on Fig’s face. It was quieter and more vulnerable than her usual smiles, but it was there, shining like a beacon on her face. And it was for Fabian.

He was determined not to think too much about it. Just because she didn’t have a boyfriend- just because she was smiling at him _like that-_ it didn’t mean anything. He was just- he was paranoid.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Fabian blurted, because for all his posturing, he really had very little sense of self-preservation. 

“Oh, okay,” Fig nodded, and then nodded again, and then shuffled her music atop the piano. “Okay. Would you want to- tomorrow, after the show- get something to eat? Gorgug and I usually get ice cream at this place in our neighborhood if you wanted to tag along?” There was something almost nervous in her voice, in the way she glanced up at Fabian and back down again.

“Yeah, sounds great.” _Not a date, not a date,_ Fabian thought resolutely. “Do we wanna open with Back to Black tonight?” Some of the tension leaked out of Fig’s shoulders as he redirected the conversion back to work, back to the neutral territory of music that didn’t have any weird subtext Fabian constantly felt like he was missing. 

The rest of the night went normally- or as normally as possible when Fabian had to rip his eyes away from Fig every other verse, when he kept feeling her eyes on him whenever he looked down at the keys. 

After last call, Fabian ran into Fig backstage, pulling her combat boots back on under her dress. “The heels I grabbed _suck,”_ she explained as he approached, not looking up, “I’ve had them three years and they still blister my feet.”

“Why keep them?”

She glanced up at him, hands pausing mid-knot on her laces. “They make my legs look good,” she said; like a challenge, like a question, like Fabian was missing _something._ His mouth went dry, but she looked back at her boots and continued, “Anyway, I didn’t wanna bother changing all the way, but there’s no way I’m walking home in those things-” she glanced venomously at the heels sitting in a pile beside her bag.

“Walking?” Fabian echoed. “It’s one in the morning, Fig.”

She shrugged, rising to her feet. “It’s not that far, no biggie.”

“Wha- _no, Fig._ Can’t you call an Uber or something? It’s dangerous to walk alone this time of night.”

“Nah, I’m not gonna waste money on an Uber; seriously, it’s only like a twenty minute walk, Fabian.” 

“I can drive you,” Fabian offered, the words flying out of his mouth before he realized the implications. “Uh, I mean, or I can pay for an Uber. I don’t want you to have to walk home alone.”

Fig’s brow furrowed as she looked up at him. “You’d give me a ride? I mean I don’t live far, but I wouldn’t wanna put you out of your way-”

“It’s not a problem. As long as you’re- you’d be comfortable with it-” abruptly, Fabian remembered all the lectures Adaine had given him over the years about what was and wasn’t appropriate for a male coworker to offer. 

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate it; if you’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I do, in all fairness, drive a _motorcycle,_ not a _car,_ just so you know before agreeing-”

Fig laughed brightly, cutting him off mid-explanation. “A motorcycle?” She echoed, looking surprised- and _impressed,_ for some reason- raising an eyebrow with a smirk that made his stomach twist. “Fabian, that’s _sick,_ holy shit.” She leaned down and swept her heels into the canvas bag she’d brought into work, looping the straps over her shoulder. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Yes,” Fabian said, with more certainty than he felt. To his credit, his unease was less about the prospect of driving someone home after work, and more about driving Fig home, specifically. About having her arms around his waist and her hips on the seat behind his. “You ready to go? I have an extra helmet you can use.”

“Yeah, absolutely.” Fig grabbed his shoulder as he started to turn towards the door, stopping Fabian in his tracks. “Thanks for this Fabian, seriously. I appreciate it.”

Fabian was eternally grateful for both the darkness of his skin and the dim light in the backstage corridor, that Fig couldn’t see the red hot flush he felt spread over his cheeks. “Of course, Fig,” he said, only a little breathless. “Happy to help.” 

Her responding grin shone, even in the faint backstage blues. 

Fabian’s motorcycle- the Hangman, belovedly nicknamed when he was 18 and stupid- was his pride and joy. Of all the things his father taught him, Fabian was most grateful for all the time they’d spent in the garage, his father showing him how to fix and take care of all his cars and bikes. How to take pride in the things he drove. 

Fabian dug an extra helmet out of the under-seat compartment and passed it to Fig before putting on his own helmet. He climbed onto the Hangman and turned the ignition, trying not to tense up when he felt Fig slide onto the seat behind him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, just above his hips, and Fabian felt her head bump against the back of his shoulder as she leaned forward. Objectively, he knew he was taller than Fig, but it was different to _know_ it and to _feel_ her narrow frame pressed shoulders to hip against his, her bony wrists digging into her stomach, her chin against the top of his shoulders. 

“Ready?” 

She nodded, and Fabian felt her hair brush against the back of his neck. “Yeah, I live over on Elm Court?” 

“Got it,” Fabian muttered, driving out of Bastion’s parking lot and down the road. The Hangman’s engine rumbled a familiar timpani under them as they rode, and Fig pointed from around his waist to direct him through the neighborhood to her house. It really wasn’t very far from Bastion’s, only about a five minute ride; which was equal parts too short and too long. He pulled up to an idling stop in front of a small, surprisingly suburban house. Fig climbed off the back of the Hangman, her hand trailing across Fabian’s hips- probably unintentionally- as she did.

“Thank you again,” Fig said as she pulled the borrowed helmet off her head, running a hand through her mussed bangs. He took the helmet out of her hands and tucked it back under the seat. 

“Yeah, of course,” Fabian said, pulling off his helmet, too, and tucking it under his arm. He ran his free hand through his hair in an unconscious mirror of Fig, pushing it out of his face. 

“I’ll, um, text you the address for the show tomorrow? If you still want to come?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

“Cool.” Fig hesitated, eyes driving holes into Fabian. Her mouth opened, like she was about to say something, before pressing closed again quickly. The streetlight at the corner of the block washed her in warm orange light, turning her brown hair to a burnished gold and making her eyes shine like the sun. Fabian’s stomach twisted- part in trepidation and part in a sick kind of hope- as he swore he saw Fig’s eyes jump down his face and land on his lips, if only for a moment. He stepped back abruptly, craving space between them like air, pressing his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out. 

“Uh, right!” Fig said as he stepped back, shattering the tremulous moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” She waved over her shoulder as she jogged up the drive towards the house. Fabian waited, leaning against the warm side of the Hangman, until Fig went inside and turned a light on. Even though he hated watching her walk away, he wanted to be sure she got inside safe. 

* * *

The Sig Fig’s concert was incredible. Fig’s stage presence was electric and captivating, her bandmate Gorgug was an incredible drummer, their whole set was an amazing balance of covers and originals. Plus, Adaine was busy that night, so there wasn’t anyone to shake their head at Fabian disappointedly if he spent the entire show watching Fig. Her nimble fingers playing her bright red bass guitar; the piece of hair that fell out of the messy top knot and into her face, the sliver of abdomen and stomach that showed between her skirt and t-shirt when she raised her arms. He couldn’t make himself look away. 

When the show finally ended, Fabian lingered at the bar, nursing his mostly-ice melt cocktail and scanning the crowd for Fig. Eventually, he caught sight of the drummer, Gorgug, in the middle of the crowd; his tall head hung bashfully against the wave of admirers. Fabian watched in vague amusement as Gorgug fought his way gently through the crowd. It was easier to like the guy, after seeing him perform and after learning that he wasn’t dating Fig. 

As soon as Gorgug broke through the ranks of fans, Fabian caught sight of Fig at his heels, chattering and laughing with people as she walked. She was effervescent, even in the middle of the grimy bar. A leather jacket was slung over her shoulders and her boots looked heavy enough to smash someone’s toes if they got close enough, and knowing Fig’s temper, likely had. When she caught his eye, she waved wildly, gesturing him towards her and tugging on Gorgug’s hand to catch his attention. Fig’s face was red, probably from the final number of the show, and Gorgug was snickering into his hand as Fabian approached, elbowing his way through the packed bar. 

“Fabian, I’m _so glad_ you came!” Fig said brightly, as soon as he was close enough to hear her over the roar of conversation. “This is my best friend Gorgug.” She elbowed Gorgug beside her, who raised a hand and smiled at Fabian in greeting. “Gorgug, this is Fabian.”

“It’s really great to finally meet you, dude,” Gorgug said, easy and affable. “Fig’s told me so much about you.”

Fig turned even brighter red at that, elbowing Gorgug again and muttering, _“Shut up!”_ She glared up at him as Gorgug glanced between her and Fabian, grinning. 

“Uh, yes, it’s good to meet you, Gorgug. The show was incredible.”

“Awww, thanks! I’m so glad you came.” Fig popped up on her toes to peer over Fabian’s shoulder. “Is Adaine here?”

“Uh, no, it’s just me. Adaine had some boring thing for work she had to go to tonight, a friend’s poetry release or something.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fig said, not looking regretful in the slightest- which, just another thing to put on Fabian’s not thinking about that list. “Did you still wanna go get ice cream with Gorgug and me? Our stuff is all packed up in Zelda’s van-”

“My girlfriend-” Gorgug interjected, with the easy grace of someone who was used to Fig’s excited ramblings. 

“So we’re ready to go whenever.” 

“Sure, my tab is closed off. I rode my bike here, so I’ll have to follow behind you guys in the van-”

“Actually, that’s perfect,” Gorgug interrupted again, “Zelda wanted to catch a midnight showing of that new horror movie tonight instead of ice cream, if that’s okay? So you guys can go to Basrar’s on Fabian’s bike and Zel and I can take the van?” 

“Seriously?” Fig glanced up at Gorgug, an inscrutable expression on her face. For a horrifying split second, Fabian thought he saw something like anger, flash across her face, but the next second she was rolling her eyes at her friend, a small smile on her face. “You’re such a simp, dude.” Gorgug grinned and shrugged, eyes catching on someone across the bar as he waved for them- Zelda, presumably- to join him. “You don’t mind, Fabian?” Fig asked, and even if Fabian had minded, he could never say no to the hopeful smile in Fig’s eyes.

Maybe he was a goner, whatever. One more night wouldn’t hurt him anymore than it already had. 

“No, that’s fine,” Fabian said as a young woman- even shorter than Fig- approached their little group and ducked under Gorgug’s arm, pressing into his side. 

“This is Zelda,” Gorgug said, Zelda waving shyly out from under her boyfriend’s arm, “Zelda, this is Fabian, Fig’s-”

“Partner.” Fig interjected, a light flush coloring her cheeks as she quickly corrected herself, “Uh, coworker.”

“Pianist at Bastion’s,” Fabian offered, pointedly ignoring the excited jump in his stomach at Fig calling them _partners._ “Lovely to meet you, your boyfriend’s incredibly talented.”

Gorgug blushed bright red and ducked his head into Zelda’s shoulder, who smiled proudly up at Fabian. “I know,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s great to meet you too, Fabian. Uh, Fig-” she craned her neck around Gorgug’s body to look at Fig on his other side- “did Gorgug tell you about the showing of _Bloodrush Field_ tonight? You won’t hate me if we go instead of going to Basrar’s, right?”

“Zelda, I could never hate you, it’s no biggie. Fabian was gonna give me a ride to Basrar’s, you guys enjoy the movie.”

“Dope,” Gorgug said, pecking Zelda on the top of the head as he leaned back up. “Uh, in that case I think we’re gonna head out-” he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time- “we should have enough time to drop the instruments and amps and stuff off at the house on the way there.”

“Kay, sounds good.” Fig swung her arm around Gorgug to give him a quick side hug. “See you when I get home, or are you guys gonna go back to Zelda’s after?”

Gorgug glanced at Zelda briefly before shrugging again. “I’ll text you when we decide.”

“Bye Fabian, it was nice to meet you!” Zelda waved as she tugged Gorgug away through the crowd, heading towards the back door of the bar.

“See you guys!” Gorgug called, as he let himself be dragged away.

It was so friendly, so familiar, that for a moment, Fabian could picture himself at the front of a crowd just like this one, pressed up against the front of the stage. Zelda on one side and Adaine on the other as they cheered in chorus for Gorgug and Fig onstage. Could picture Gorgug blowing a kiss to Zelda in between songs and Fig catching his eye and winking as she sang and danced around the stage. Could imagine a snapshot of what his life would look like, side by side with Fig.

Fig rolled her eyes again, snickering at her friends’ retreating backs. “They’re ridiculous.”

“Uh, yeah.” Fabian blinked away the daydream and shot Fig what he hoped was a confident grin. “You ready to go? I parked the Hangman out front.”

“You named your motorcycle the _Hangman?”_ Fig laughed, and from anyone else it would sound mocking, but there was something about the she tilted her to catch his eye as she giggled that made Fig seem impossibly earnestly amused. “You _have_ to tell me the story behind that.”

Fabian did his best to explain as they fought their way out of the bar and across the parking lot; about his father’s bizarre fascination with pirates and naming his many cars. How eager Fabian had been at 18 to follow in his footsteps, even if the name he chose was a direct copy of his father’s favorite car. How the name had just stuck, against all odds. 

Basrar’s was a little hole in the wall ice cream shop a couple blocks down from the bar they’d performed at, complete with a flashing neon _open_ sign hanging in the window. The guy at the counter brightened as Fig walked in. 

“Fig! It’s so good to see you,” he effused. “Where’s Gorgug?”

“Hey Basrar, he and Zelda ditched me to go see a movie after the show tonight.”

“Ohohoh,” Basrar- _the owner?-_ chortled. “And how did your show go? What I would’ve given to be there, my dear-”

“It was really good, thanks. Uh, and this is Fabian, a friend from work; he’s here to make sure I don’t eat ice cream all alone like a loser.” 

“Fabian!” Basrar turned to him with the same broad, genial smile, “It’s so good to meet you!”

“You too, uh, Mr. Basrar.”

“Well, what can I get for you two? On the house, of course, for our own rising rock star.”

Fig blushed and rolled her eyes again fondly, but didn’t argue. “Uh, my usual for me, and then, Fabian?”

“A banana split?” Fabian suggested, and Basrar nodded. “Extra cherries, double chocolate instead of vanilla?”

“Got it, you two take a seat and I’ll bring it out in just a moment!”

“Thanks Basrar!” Fig called over her shoulder as she walked across the shop and settled into a booth, pulling off her leather jacket and shoving it in between the seat and the window as she sat down. Fabian settled down across from her, and Fig almost immediately launched into a story about one of the first concerts Fig and the Sig Figs had performed at, opening for a dad rock screamo band. Halfway through the story, Basrar swept by and dropped off Fabian’s banana split and a tall strawberry milkshake with a mountain of whipped cream for Fig. 

For the most part, Fabian was able to ignore how distinctly _date-like_ the whole thing felt, focusing on Fig’s insane stories about Sig Fig rehearsals and the convoluted matchmaking schemes she’d concocted to get Gorgug and Zelda together the previous year. He told her about him and Adaine in highschool, how he rediscovered his love of piano in college, and she told him about how the Sig Figs started in Gorgug’s parents’ garage and grew into an actual, legitimate band.

The red neon sign buzzed above their heads, shining shards of electric red light onto Fig’s face and the table between them. Fig spun her straw between her fingers, even after she’d finished her milkshake, and Fabian couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so comfortable with someone who wasn’t Adaine.

It was disturbingly easy to close his eyes and imagine it as a real date. He would give Fig a ride home again, her arms warm around his waist the whole time, but this time he would walk her to the door- 

“Uh, should we head home?” Fabian said, shaking himself out of his daydream. 

“Yeah, sure,” Fig glanced at her phone, scowling briefly at something on the screen before climbing out of the booth. “Thanks so much, Basrar.” She pulled her jacket back on as she walked up to the counter, “You’re the best. I’ll drag Gorgug back in soon, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, my dear,” Basrar said with a wink. “And you should bring your young man Fabian back in, too.” 

Fig turned bright red and Fabian froze to the spot at Basrar’s words. “My- what?”

Basrar glanced between them with knowing satisfaction; and Fabian felt like he was fifteen years old again, with Cathilda looking pointedly between him and Ragh until his cheeks felt like they were going to catch on fire. “My girl, I’ve seen enough first ice cream dates to know it when I see one.”

“Uh-”

“It’s not a date!” Fabian interjected quickly, waving his hands in the air as though _that_ would help disperse the stagnant awkwardness hanging around them. “It’s not- we’re not- it’s not a date.” He repeats, quieter, staring wide eyed at Basrar, if only to avoid Fig’s stare. “I’m going to- motorcycle. Thank you for the ice cream.” And then, the great Fabian Aramais Seacaster turned tail and _ran_ from the ice cream shop.

 _Adaine is going to laugh her ass off about this,_ Fabian thought with a groan, collapsing against the side of the building. _I’m so incredibly fucked._

A minute later, he heard the little bell on the door jingle and Fig’s heavy platform boots clomp on the sidewalk and come to stop next to him. There was a soft sigh and the shifting of fabric as he felt her lean against the wall next to him. _Maybe,_ Fabian thought, _if I stand here in silent mortification, she’ll leave me to wallow out of sheer decency._

“Fabian?” _As usual, no such luck._ “I, uh, I’m sorry if what Basrar said made you uncomfortable. He means well, really-”

“Made me uncomfortable?” Fabian interrupted, standing up and turning to face Fig. “Why would I be uncomfortable? I thought that you…” Fabian trailed off, hesitating. Fig was staring up at him, there was a tiny wrinkle in the middle of her furrowed brow, there was a fragment of neon red light slashed across her cheekbone. 

“You thought that I what?” There wasn’t any challenge in Fig’s voice, only confusion and astoundingly, heart-stoppingly, unmistakably, _hope._

“I thought you weren’t interested.”

Fig’s brow furrowed even further as she scowled at him. “Why _wouldn’t_ I be interested in you?” She demanded, and Fabian’s heart froze mid-beat before doubling, tripling in time. “You’re- Fabian, you’re _incredible._ You’re one of the most talented musicians I know- and I’m including myself in that list- and you’re funny and stubborn and you have all these walls up but when you let them down... Fabian, why would you think I wouldn’t be interested?” 

Fabian watched her, eyes flashing and cheeks flushing as she ranted- as she ranted all the things she _liked about him._ He felt rooted to the floor, his heart beating an impossible tempo, drowning out everything around him but Fig’s words. 

“Honestly, I was kind of hoping this _was_ a date?” The hope in her voice was undeniable. “That’s why Gorgug and Zelda ditched out on ice cream.”

“Oh,” Fabian breathed. 

“It doesn’t _have_ to be, obviously,” Fig said quickly, “but I- just to be clear. If you wanted it to be, I’d want it to be.”

“Be… a date?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” There was a tiny smile on Fig’s face and the sight of it filled Fabian’s chest up until it felt like it was going to explode. “Yeah, yes, hah, yes, absolutely. _Yes.”_

Fig’s smile brightened to blinding, like stage lights all coalescing into one spotlight, like the sun shining down in a single beam, like all the stars blended together until they filled the sky. “Oh,” she echoed. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Uh, sick, now that that’s settled-” Fig pushed off of the wall and started towards the Hangman. For a moment, Fabian watched her walk away again, stunned. But then he caught the stiffness of Fig’s shoulders, the careful way she walked, like every step was on unsteady terrain. Like she felt uncertain and uncomfortable in her own skin; like she was made of glass.

Fabian caught her wrist gently, careful to keep his grip tight enough to catch her, and loose enough that she could slip away. She didn’t. Slowly, she turned back around to face him, raw trepidation and vulnerability painted over her face in broad, messy strokes. “Look; just so you know, before you commit, or whatever, I’m not- the girl who comes to Bastion’s every night, that’s not- she’s only _some_ of me. And Sig Figs, that’s part of me, too, but there’s more, and I’m not- it’s not good and it’s not polished and it’s not- I’m not who you think I am.”

Slowly, he stepped closer to her, letting go over her wrist and twisting her fingers with his. Her hand tightened around his like it was a lifeboat in rough water. “I’m not- good, or polished like I am at work either. No one is, right? We all want to be those perfect, flawless versions of ourselves, but… we’re not. But we’re trying. And I want to get to know all of the imperfect parts of you, Fig, but if you think that who you onstage isn’t _really you,_ you’re crazy.” 

“Oh,” Fig breathed. “I don’t know how to do-” she waved her free hand in between them- “this. Dating. I’ve only done it- not _real._ Not as myself.” She hesitated, lips pursing, before Fabian saw her shoulders square as she made a decision. “But I want to.” 

And then her hand was on his jaw and she was pulling him down, down, down, and then her mouth was on his and Fabian’s head went to pure, delighted static.

It was this: Fig’s hair was soft and she gasped and pressed further into his mouth when he combed his fingers through it. It was this: Fig’s hand sliding from his jaw to the back of his neck and pulling him down even closer to her, teetering on her tiptoes to reach. It was this: Fig’s mouth tasting like strawberries and the disgusting lemon tea her friend brewed for good luck before shows. It was this: Fig finally breaking away and landing on her heels with the most pleased, smug expression Fabian had ever seen on her face.

“I want to, too.” He breathed, still leaning down so they were face to face.

Fig snorted. “To too; like _tutu.”_

Fabian leaned back and laughed a sharp, unselfconscious shout of laughter into the night air, with Fig’s giggles singing a bright harmony. 

“I used to do ballet in high school, you know,” he told her when their childish, giddy laughter had subsided. “Fuck toxic masculinity and all that.”

Fig’s eyes widened, “Holy shit, can you pick me up?” She asked, because of _course_ that was Fig’s first thought, which just caused Fabian to launch into another laughing fit, nodding and leaning his head against Fig’s shoulder. Because he _could._ Her hair smelled like sugar and smoke and her body shook in laughter underneath him, and Fabian was lit up from the inside with electric joy; a choir of disbelief and happiness and hope singing in harmony in his head. 

He wrapped his arms around Fig’s waist and lifted her off her toes, spinning around in a circle so her feet swung out behind her. Fig shouted in laughter as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her face against his collarbone so firmly he could feel her smile. After a few rotations he set her back down again, both of them breathless from laughter and adrenaline.

“That answers _that_ question,” Fig giggled, and Fabian fought the urge to pick her up again, just to see her grin at him. 

“Can I take you to dinner? Anything you want, no kippers or champagne-”

“What? I mean, dinner, _yes;_ but why wouldn’t I want kippers or champagne? I mean I’ve never _had_ kippers, but I’d be willing to try it.”

“I- I tried to ask you to dinner earlier this week. I just assumed you weren’t interested in that kind of- well, actually, I _thought_ you weren’t interested in _me_ and that you had a _boyfriend,_ but failing both of those…”

“Wait, you mean… that one guy who came in on like Tuesday or whatever? And we were joking about rich people? That was- you were…?”

“Actually trying to ask you out, yes.” Fabian cringed, “And failing miserably, as it seems.”

Fig laughed incredulously. “Dude, I thought you were just- we were joking around about that guy and I didn’t even-” she pressed her hand to her mouth, looking torn between apologizing and laughing- “I’ve never had a guy ask me out for _kippers_ before. What even is that?”

“Pickled fish? They were my favorite snack as a child but they’re harder to find now-”

“Dude,” Fig was laughing again, “you’re so _weird._ In like, the _best way.”_ She caught his hand from where it had fallen away from her waist, intertwining her fingers with his. “Yeah, I’ll go try kippers with you, and whatever other weird rich people food you grew up eating.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, dude. I’ll eat pickled fish and caviar and gold leaf with you and then I’ll drag you back here and we’ll have a real ice cream date. If that sounds like something you’d want.”

“Darling, there’s nothing I would want more.”

Fig flushed bright red at that, muttering, _“Darling,_ you’re such a weirdo, I like you so much-” before pulling him back down by the back of the neck and kissing him again. And again. And again.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out once again to my dear friends Jack @gendermybeloved and Casey @aberfaeth, without whom this fic would never have been written <33 thank you sm for cheering me on with this insane, niche nonsense work  
> You can check me out on tumblr also [@grasslandgirl](https://grasslandgirl.tumblr.com/) and my inbox is always open if you wanna scream about d20 or the bad kids, or if you have prompts/fic ideas you want to see written into reality!!  
> Thank you so much for reading and comments and kudos always make my day xoxoxo


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